Cutting up an ox

Prince Wen Hui's cook
Was cutting up an ox.
Out went a hand,
Down went a shoulder,
He planted a foot,
He pressed with a knee
The ox fell apart

With a whisper,

The bright cleaver murmured

Like a gentle wind.

Rhythm! Timing!

Like a sacred dance,

Like "The Mulberry Grove"

Like ancient harmonies!

"Good work!" the Prince exclaimed, "Your method is faultless!"

"Method?" said the cook

Laying aside his cleaver,

"What I follow is Tao
Beyond all methods!

When I first began

To cut up oxen I would see before me

The whole ox

All in one mass.

"After three years I no longer saw this mass. I saw the distinctions.

"But now, I see nothing

With the eye.

My whole being

Apprehends.

My sense are idle. The spirit

Free to work without plan

Follows its own instinct

Guided by natural line,

By the secret opening,

The hidden space,

My cleaver finds its own way. I cut through no joint, chop no bone.

"A great cook needs a new chopper

Once a year - he cuts.

A poor cook needs a new one

Every month - he hacks!

"I have used this same cleaver

Nineteen years.

It has cut up

A thousand oxen.

Its edge is as keen

As if newly sharpened.

"There are spaces in the joints;

The blade is thin and keen:

When this thinness

Finds that space

There is all the room you need!

It goes like a breeze!

Hence I have this cleaver

Nineteen years

As if newly sharpened!

"True, there are sometimes

Tough joints.

I feel them coming, I slow down, I watch closely,

Hold back, barely move the blade,

And whump! the part falls away

Landing like a clod of earth.

"Then I withdraw the blade,

I stand still

And let the joy of the work

Sink in. I clean the blade And put it away."

Prince Wen Hui said, "This is it!

My cook has shown me

How I ought to live

My own life!"

(Chuang Tzu)